Page 6 of The Mistletoe Dare

Georgie’s mouth fell open for the second time that day. “What did I do?” she repeated in outrage.

“Well? Out with it,” Jules persisted.

“I did nothing!” Georgie said, keeping her voice low and urgent, for they were almost in the dining room. “He was lurking in a dark corner of the library, and I didn’t know he was there. I walked into him—which is akin to walking into a brick wall, I might add—and the impact threw me off my feet. There I was, sprawled on the floor in front of him, utterly humiliated and all he did was stare at me like I was something unpleasant he’d stepped in.”

“Really?” Jules said, looking thoroughly entertained.

“Yes, really,” she said, flushing with embarrassment as she remembered. “He didn’t even offer me a hand to get up.”

“Why not? What did he say?”

Georgie rolled her eyes at him. “He said he would have offered, but he wanted to ensure I wouldn’t swoon at the thought of touching him, or some such nonsense.”

A thoughtful expression flitted over Jules’ face as he considered this.

“What?” she demanded, but they lost any further chance at conversation as they had to find their places.

“I’ll speak to you another time, George,” Jules promised cryptically.

Frustrated and curious, Georgie had to be satisfied… until she turned to discover she was seated next to the Duke of Rochford.

Rochford smirked inwardly as he saw the young woman look at the place cards, scowl, and look up at him.

Yes, my pretty little dove, they’ve sat you next to the mangy cur and there’s damn all you can do about it.

He watched, admitting himself impressed, as she gathered herself, put up her chin and moved to her place.

“Good evening, your grace,” she said with impeccable politeness, drawing out the honorific with such emphasis that he wanted to smile. She curtsied, offering him a peek of her splendid décolletage and, for a moment, Rochford forgot anything resembling manners, too riveted by the sight and a lurid daydream about burying his face there. She looked up, catching him ogling her like some panting, overheated schoolboy. He felt bad about it until he remembered the way she’d sprung away from him like he’d the pox. Anger and resentment overtook any feelings of guilt and he leered at her, ensuring she was not in doubt she’d been right in thinking him a vile monster. She stiffened and refused to look at him again.

Rochford endured the evening, as he’d known would be inevitable. Everyone here was related or an old friend of the family, and the atmosphere was warm and convivial. The conversation flitted past him, witty and fast-paced and covering many eclectic topics. But Rochford let the noise wash over him. It was always this way, with him on the outside even if he was in the centre of a crowd. Once upon a time, it had bothered him. Once upon a time, he’d been fool enough to try to belong. No longer. With an inward sigh, he wondered if he might have been better off alone at Mulcaster than sitting through weeks of evenings like this. A chill ran down his spine as he considered returning to the castle alone. No. No, this was far from perfect, but it was better than that.

“—then Rochford stepped in and saved my sorry arse.”

“Jules! Language,” the duchess scolded, though her eyes danced with mirth.

Jules grinned at her, not looking the least bit chastised. “Sorry, Mama, but it’s true, I swear. Isn’t it, Rochford?”

Rochford glanced up, discomforted, to find everyone at the table looking at him.

“If it’s coming from your lips, I highly doubt it,” he muttered, concentrating on cutting up a slice of roast beef.

A murmur of laughter rippled around the room.

“A fair remark, but all the same, they outnumbered me five to one, and the fellows were cut-throats to a man, I swear. I thought my number was up, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Oh, Jules, have a care for your poor mother!” the duchess said with agitation, swiping up her wineglass and taking an unladylike swallow.

“There, there, Prue. He survived and was a deal wiser for the experience,” Bedwin said, from the other end of the table.

“Anyway, Rochford arrived like an incoming tide,” Jules said, apparently enjoying himself enormously. “For a moment, I wasn’t certain what side he was on, as he didn’t look exactly friendly himself, but then… then… he picked the first fellow up, over his head, and flung him halfway across the room. I swear to God, I’ve never seen the like before or since.”

The entire room fell silent, gawping at Rochford, and his skin prickled with unease. Well, let them look. They looked and saw a great beast capable of violence and destruction, and why not? He was capable of such behaviour, right enough. Fighting their expectations certainly didn’t get him anywhere.

“What happened next, Jules?” his sister, Lady Rosamund, asked with wide eyes.

“The other fellows took one look at Rochford and ran away,” Jules said, laughing. “So I bought him a drink to thank him for his help, and the surly devil took a liking to me.”

“I never did. You just won’t take no for an answer,” Rochford grumbled.